DARK DREAMS Page 3

  She sighed. “That may be, but it would not look right to the people of Fair Isle. Your Elite Guard would offend them. They expect the Empress to be approachable. And even though I do not claim this title, it is how they see me. From the poorest homeless worker to the master of the greatest guild, I must be accessible to them, so I will decline your offer. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  “Wait.” He caught her arm as she brushed past. “I broke up a fight in the stables. Some hotheads were brawling over your honor. This time there was nothing worse than a few bloody noses, but I cannot be at your heels every time you step out of the palace.”

  She laughed, flicking her arm free of his grasp with one easy movement. “I am not so useless that I need protecting from my own people or yours. Now I must send these invitations.”

  “Imoshen!”

  She waited, regal and amused.

  “All it takes is one zealot with a knife. You could be killed!”

  All amusement left her face. She held his eyes, hers as sharp as garnets. “It is the same for every ruler. I have faced death many times since I surrendered my Stronghold to you, General Tulkhan. You of all people must be aware of that. But this has not stopped me performing my duty.”

  He wanted to deny that he had been ready to order her death on more than one occasion but could not.

  She leant closer and raised her hand in what he thought would be a caress, but instead she plucked a straw from his temple plait and tossed it into the fire. “Don’t worry, General. I will be on my guard.”

  As Imoshen collected the official invitations, she was aware of the General’s displeasure. Since they had arrived in the capital, she had watched Tulkhan study the palace and its people. He was quick to learn and adapt. He would not insist on assigning an Elite Guard to her if she could convince him otherwise.

  She paused at the entrance to her chambers where one of her people stood and smiled at the youth, remembering how twenty men and women from her Stronghold Guard had accompanied her to the capital at an hour’s notice. When Tulkhan had banished Gharavan, he had needed to move quickly to seize power. He had moved so swiftly that he had laid claim to her by announcing their betrothal the first night in the capital. Her guard and a single chest of belongings were all that were truly hers in this great palace. It would impress the town dignitaries and Church officials if their invitations were delivered by the leader of her personal guard.

  “Where is Crawen?”

  The young man flushed, lifting T’En eyes to Imoshen’s. They shared a common ancestry, though only Imoshen carried all the traits of the pure T’En, the six fingers, the silver hair, and the wine-dark eyes. Since her people had settled Fair Isle, they had interbred with the locals until the pure T’En had all but died out. Her birth had been an unwelcome surprise for her family, both a curse and a blessing.

  “Crawen is practicing T’Enchu in the ballcourt.”

  “Thank you.” Imoshen turned to Tulkhan. “I trained under Crawen from the age of ten. Come see my people’s skill at unarmed combat, then tell me I cannot defend myself.” She led the way but they did not reach the ballcourt. Raised voices greeted them even before they entered the connecting passage.

  “... her place!” Harholfe’s words became clear to Imoshen.

  “Her place?” Crawen repeated softly. “You insult—”

  “She insults our General. In Gheeaba a woman would not dare touch a weapon!” Jacolm said. “In Gheeaba she dare not raise her eyes to a man who is not her husband or blood relative.”

  Imoshen would have rounded the corner to confront them but Tulkhan caught her arm, his expression urging her to listen. If he could listen, so could she.

  “You Ghebite bar—”

  “Quiet,” Crawen ordered her companion, her tone sharp but level. “This is not Gheeaba, Commander Jacolm. T’Imoshen is second cousin to the Empress and skilled enough to teach the art of T’Enchu. Once True-men and women did not raise their eyes to the T’En, but we have come a long way since then. One day Gheeaba may—”

  “You call yourself a leader? Yet you fetch and carry these fairground disguises!” Harholfe kicked an arm-guard which bounced off the wall and skittered around the corner landing at Imoshen’s feet. She picked it up automatically.

  Again Crawen’s companion would have protested but she cut him short.

  “It is said in Fair Isle that the higher we rise the more we serve. The Stronghold Guard is an ancient, honorable—”

  “What kind of guard accepts women into its ranks?” Jacolm sneered. A charged silence followed.

  “Your men are deliberately baiting my people, General!” Imoshen mouthed.

  “What do you expect?” He held her eyes. “You bait me, they are only—”

  Furious, Imoshen turned the corner to find Jacolm and Harholfe and three of Tulkhan’s Elite Guard facing three of her Stronghold Guard. Crawen and her two companions stood with their backs to a decorative arched niche. Behind them was a scene from the Age of Tribulation painted with lifelike accuracy. The first two hundred years of T’En rule in Fair Isle had been spent containing bloody uprisings. As Crawen had said, Fair Isle had come a long way.

  Imoshen faltered. Was the shedding of blood the only way to resolve ideological conflict? Was threat and might the only thing the Ghebites respected?

  “Crawen,” Imoshen greeted them. “Jacolm, Harholfe. The General and I wish to stage a Tourney.” She caught Tulkhan’s eye as he joined her. He cloaked his surprise and, with a gleam of annoyed amusement, folded his arms, leaning against the wall. She realized he had abandoned her to sink or swim. She plunged on. “When the Age of Tribulation ended, our people kept their martial skills alive with competition and display. I propose the Stronghold Guard stage a martial display of T’Enchu and T’En swordsmanship on the spring fairground east of town.” Imoshen turned to Tulkhan. “Would your men like to stage a display of their own?”

  He straightened. “When?”

  Imoshen glanced from the belligerent Ghebites to her beleaguered guard. “This afternoon?”

  Chapter Two

  As the two columns of Ghebite horsemen circled, Imoshen marveled at their precision born of discipline and ceaseless training.

  Spellbound, the silent crowd watched the Ghebites’ horses pound over the field, kicking clouds of snow and dirt high in the air. Taking up position opposite the painted hide target, the two columns paused, one to Imoshen’s right, the other to her left.

  On the far side of the field parents hurriedly herded children away from the target and there was a moment of hushed expectation. Uttering the eerie Ghebite battle cry, the first archer urged his horse to a gallop, charging diagonally at the target.

  Before he had even let his arrow fly, the alternate rider surged forward. Standing in their stirrups, both archers approached the target. One instant’s misjudgment and the riders would collide, going down beneath sharp hooves.

  First one then the next let his arrows fly, alternating like the rug maker’s threads, weaving a craft of whistling death. The bolts flew true, striking the center of the target. No wonder the Ghebites had swept all opposition before them. Their display finished, the Ghebite cavalry made a triumphant circuit of the field. As the people of Fair Isle cheered their conquerors, Imoshen repressed a bitter smile. Even though she had been the one to suggest the Tourney, the crowd’s response rankled her.

  The mounted men wheeled and saluted the far side of the field, where their general appeared on his black destrier. Imoshen caught her breath.

  Tulkhan wore no armor, nothing but boots and breeches. His long, black hair hung free around his broad shoulders and he rode at one with his horse. To Imoshen he was the physical embodiment of his Ghebite heritage, of those fiercely loyal tribesmen of the harsh plains who counted their wealth in horses.

  A buzz of speculation spread through the crowd. Tulkhan circled the field at full gallop, then stood in the stirrups. Without warning he leapt to the ground
, running beside the flashing hooves of his horse, hands on the saddle pommel. The crowd gasped. Imoshen glanced to the cavalry who watched their general proudly, and she understood he was repeating the deeds of his ancestors, men who rode bareback as boys, men who worshipped bravery and skill. With a leap, Tulkhan regained his seat, rising to stand on the horse’s back. Arms extended, knees flexed, he balanced above his galloping mount.

  When Tulkhan finally dropped into the saddle Imoshen let out her breath. He pulled his mount short, walking it backward. With a nourish he urged the horse to rear. It danced on its hind legs to everyone’s applause. Tulkhan’s teeth flashed white against his coppery skin, triggering a tug deep inside her.

  Imoshen smiled. The General claimed to hate pomp and ceremony, but the barbarian in him loved this kind of display.

  A servant ran onto the field to present Tulkhan with his round shield and sword. The cavalry had discarded their bows, taking up swords and shields.

  Tulkhan signaled that the bout was to begin and Imoshen tensed as the men charged, striking right and left. Horses wheeled and went down screaming. At first she thought the Ghebites had gone mad. Their swords were battle-ready, wicked weapons half as tall as a man. Then she realized the men were turning the flat of the blades on each other; even so, some would pay with broken bones.

  One by one the Ghebites conceded defeat, leaving the field dazed and bleeding. At last, only one horse and rider remained. General Tulkhan.

  The crowd roared.

  Tulkhan stood in the stirrups, black eyes flashing. Damp hair clinging to his broad shoulders, he took a victory lap. He was the perfect Ghebite warrior, fearless and terrifying. On the battlefield he was a brilliant tactician, able to weigh the alternatives and make the intuitive decisions which led his men to victory even against great odds. But it was his integrity and personal bravery that had earned him his men’s devotion. They would die for him.

  Imoshen studied Tulkhan. True, he was the perfect war general, but could he hold Fair Isle? The skills of a general were not the skills of a great statesman.

  By claiming her he had consolidated his position, and by agreeing to honor the laws of the Church, he had earned the support of this powerful body. The Beatific sat in the row behind Imoshen, flanked by her priests, lending the Church’s sanction to today’s display. But Tulkhan no longer had the backing of the Ghebite Empire, and he held Fair Isle with only his loyal commanders and army. They were a formidable force, yet spread over the population of Fair Isle they were like pebbles on a sandy beach.

  Then there was Reothe, once the late Empress’s adopted son, now rebel leader. The whole island knew he bided his time in the impenetrable Keldon Highlands with his ragtag rebel army, awaiting the moment to strike.

  To retain Fair Isle, Tulkhan had to win the support of its conquered people. Imoshen knew her people. If only Tulkhan would trust her enough to heed her advice. Irony warmed her. Since when did a Ghebite listen to a woman? She was not even a True-woman, but a T’En, “Dhamfeer” in their language. And when they called her by that name they made it an insult.

  Her hands tightened with repressed anger as she poured wine into the victory goblet and raised it high to the applause of the crowd.

  This martial display had not only given her Stronghold Guard an opportunity to display their skills to the Ghebites without bloodshed, but it had reassured T’Diemn’s townsfolk. As word had spread across the capital, shopkeepers had locked up and harnessed their horses, piling children, blankets, and food in carts. Quick-thinking bakers had thrown hot buns into calico sacks, and by noon everyone had marched out to the field where the annual spring fair was held.

  Determined to remind Tulkhan that she was not one of his slavish Ghebite women, Imoshen had taken her place in the T’Enchu display. She was wearing the traditional loose-fitting trousers, and her pure white tunic proclaimed her skill equal to that of a teacher. T’Enchu was an unarmed combat which had evolved in the early years of the T’En settlement when many of their small band had been without weapons. The art form had been maintained and polished because T’En warriors never knew when they might be caught unarmed. It was said a T’Enchu master could defeat an armed opponent and Imoshen knew many techniques for disarming an attacker. T’Enchu also placed males and females on a more equal footing because it relied on speed and using the opponent’s strength against him.

  Imoshen delighted in the precision needed to pull her attacks so that she left no mark. Blows which could break bones merely brushed her sparring partner’s tunic. Because this was a display match and she fought a partner of equal ranking, they wore no protectors.

  But when it had come to the T’En swordsmanship bout, she had bowed out after the first round, having only just begun her training last year.

  Heart racing from the exertion, she returned to the hastily erected dais to take her seat beside the General. As the display bout continued, Imoshen could not resist leaning closer to Tulkhan to say, “See what a skilled sword player can do with a knitting needle and a toothpick!”

  He had the grace to grin.

  Having disarmed the last opponent, Crawen approached the dais to accept the victory cup. She dropped a little wine on the ground, an old custom which acknowledged the Ancients, then drained her goblet. The Beatific frowned. Worship of the Ancients was regarded as primitive and by this action Crawen had revealed her peasant roots.

  When the Stronghold Guard’s piper saluted the victor, Imoshen had felt tears of pride prick her eyes. Her people had given a good account of themselves. Perhaps now Tulkhan’s men would not be so quick to cast aspersions. But having seen the Ghebite cavalry, she had to admit they were impressive.

  Now as Tulkhan rode towards her, his men chanted a paean to the great Akha Khan. It was said that in times of danger the greatest of their gods took on a physical form. In some tales he appeared as a black stallion; in others he was a hybrid creature, half stallion, half man; and on rare occasions he took the form of a man, a giant in stature with brilliant, black eyes. It was not surprising that Tulkhan’s men regarded him as the embodiment of their god.

  Triumphant, Tulkhan remained astride his destrier to accept the victory goblet from Imoshen. When he tipped a little of the wine onto the ground his gaze held Imoshen’s, as if to say, see I honor your customs even if I don’t believe in them.

  She gasped. As formidable as the General’s physical presence was, it was not his most dangerous attribute. She must never underestimate his perceptive intelligence.

  “A most impressive display of skill, General, but how many of your men nurse broken bones?” She made her voice rich and mocking. Her Stronghold Guard had suffered nothing worse than bruises.

  Tulkhan’s eyes narrowed. A frisson of danger made Imoshen’s breath catch.

  The General drained the goblet then tossed it to Wharrd. He offered Imoshen his hand. “Trust me?”

  “In matters of warcraft? Yes.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Then take my hand and I’ll show you real skill.”

  Imoshen stepped onto his boot and astride his thighs. The horse surged forward and she felt the solid wall of Tulkhan’s chest at her back. When he turned the destrier, she faced the ranks of his men dressed in their purple and black cloaks.

  “Bring me three short spears and a target,” Tulkhan ordered.

  Two men raced forward with these.

  Tulkhan took the spears and handed Imoshen the target. “You don’t ask what I do?”

  “You seek an opportunity to strut like the barbarian warrior you are!” she could not resist prodding, but he only laughed, then urged his horse towards the edge of the field where canny shopkeepers had set up portable ovens. The scent of roasting cinnamon apples hung on the air, making Imoshen’s stomach rumble.

  He halted the horse beside a waist-high tree stump. “Stand here.”

  Imoshen slid off his thighs to stand on the stump.

  He showed her how to thread her arm through the target’s support and wa
rned, “Now brace yourself, and when this is over mock me no more.”

  As she spread her weight Tulkhan wheeled the horse, galloping across the field. The crowd fell silent. The steady thud of the black horse’s hooves echoed Imoshen’s heartbeat.

  The General selected his first spear, then with a shout spurred the horse on. The black destrier surged forward, guided by the pressure of his rider’s knees.

  Tulkhan raised the spear.

  Imoshen braced her shoulders, centering the target which barely covered her chest. One misjudgment and she would be dead, a spear through her head or belly. One calculated mistake and Tulkhan would be free of her.

  Imoshen gritted her teeth.

  Tulkhan rose in the saddle, slewing the horse sideways. Even as the first spear left his hands, he plucked the second and threw; then the third, moving so fast that all three were in the air at once.

  With a thud, the first spear struck home, numbing Imoshen’s arm. Two more followed in rapid succession. The impact rocked her and she had to fight to regain her balance. The cheering of the General’s men drowned out the rushing in her head.

  Suddenly Tulkhan was beside her, hand extended. His eyes blazed with triumph, reminding Imoshen that the savage in him was very close to the surface.

  Accepting his hand, she leapt up behind him. Aware that the Ghebites loved display, she took her cue from Tulkhan’s earlier horsemanship exhibition. Planting her feet on the horse’s broad rump, she steadied herself with one hand on Tulkhan’s shoulder and held the spear-impaled target above her head. The crowd’s loud acclamation made her heart race and she felt the heady rush of battle fever. This must have been how Imoshen the First’s T’En warriors felt when they subdued Fair Isle centuries ago.